by Carola Dunn
“You’d think one uxorious man would recognize another,” Daisy observed, thinking of Osborne’s reluctance to upset his wife.
“Daisy, how the dickens did you know about the puppy pills?” Alec demanded.
“It was the cat,” Daisy told him smugly, if obscurely. Not prepared to admit to hitting the bull’s-eye with a shot in the murkiest dark, she reverted to the inspector’s comment. “All the same, I’m surprised the vicar told Mrs. Osborne, and even a bit surprised she’d spread the story. I rather had the impression she’s more of a collector of gossip than a disher-out. Yet I really can’t see her as the Poison Pen. Too busy trying quite openly to run people’s lives.”
She enlarged upon the subject while Flagg drove up to the Vicarage. Neither he nor Alec uttered a protest when she got out of the car and went with them to the front door. Alec looked a protest, but after saying so often that it was Flagg’s case, he could not very well object.
Flagg asked for Mr. Osborne. While Doris went to inform him of their arrival, Daisy whispered, “Remember he just lost his brother. They seemed pretty fond of each other.”
Flagg nodded.
The maid returned and showed them to the vicar’s study at the back of the house. Osborne rose, turning from his desk, on which lay several unopened books, a blank sheet of foolscap, and a capped fountain pen. He looked dreadful, his round cheeks sunken, his eyes red-rimmed. “Have you found out who did it?” he asked.
“We’re making progress, sir. We’ve a question or two about anonymous letters.”
The vicar crumpled, dropping into his chair. “I wondered if there could be a connection,” he said dully, burying his face in his hands. “I must have been mad to do it. Had I guessed they might lead to Ozzy’s death, I’d never have written the damn things!”
14
While Daisy, Alec, and Flagg gaped at the vicar, all equally stunned, Mrs. Osborne burst into the room. “What’s going on here?” she demanded stridently.
Flagg turned to her. “Police, ma’am. We have a few questions to put to Mr. Osborne.”
“He’s not to be disturbed. Can’t you see he’s writing his sermon?”
The vicar looked up at her. Uxorious was the wrong word, Daisy saw. He didn’t love his wife, didn’t even like her. As he had said, he was bound to her by the vows pronounced before a Deity he had ceased to believe in. Faith was gone, yet the standards set by that faith remained.
“My dear,” he said, his voice shaking, “I have just confessed to writing anonymous letters. Naturally these gentlemen expect an explanation.”
“Nonsense, Osbert! I’m sure they don’t believe you for an instant. I certainly don’t. You’re obviously protecting someone. Who is it? That Gresham woman?”
“Mrs. Osborne,” said Flagg, “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
Alec caught Daisy’s eye and, scarcely perceptibly, gestured with his head first towards Mrs. Osborne, and then to the door. Reluctant as she was to miss anything, she had to agree it was up to her to remove and soothe the frantic woman. Gently she took her arm.
Mrs. Osborne shook her off. “What are you doing here?” she cried. “What business is it of yours? Leave me alone!”
“Let her stay, Inspector,” said her husband tiredly. “Please. Adelaide has a right to hear what I have to say. And I should like Miss Dalrymple to remain. She will understand.”
With a furious glance at Daisy, Mrs. Osborne opened her mouth. Flagg beat her to it. “You may stay, ma’am, if you will keep quiet. Otherwise I shall be forced to send for the constable.”
The fight went out of the vicar’s wife. She slumped into a chair. Daisy took another, and the two detectives followed suit.
“Sir?” queried Flagg.
Osborne rubbed his eyes. “It started in the trenches,” he said in a monotone. “Was either of you … ?”
“Reserved occupation,” Flagg said.
“R.F.C.,” said Alec, “up above in my canvas kite, well out of the way.”
“It was hell. A hell on earth, and not reserved for the wicked. How could I go on believing in a loving god? You see, Adelaide, it is no new, ill-considered notion.”
Her usual ruddy colouring blanched, Mrs. Osborne jumped up. “But, Osbert …”
Alec turned his piercing gaze on her, and she subsided again. “Go on, Mr. Osborne.”
“No loving god, no reward in heaven, no afterlife.” He spoke in a sort of chant, as if he had rehearsed the words a thousand times. “No punishment in hell, hereafter. I saw the prosperity of the wicked, flourishing like a green bay-tree. There is no justice! They pay no heed to my sermons. Why should they, fearing no hell? Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, but there is no lord. I felt I must …” He faltered.
“Exact vengeance yourself,” Daisy said softly.
“Make the sinners suffer, and renounce their sins! Pride goeth before destruction, but why was my brother destroyed for my pride?” the vicar cried, agonized.
“We can’t be sure …” Flagg started.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Osbert! I’m convinced it was a tramp. I dare say he was begging, and Osmund refused to give him anything and very likely laughed in his face.”
“Life’s a jest,” said Osborne sombrely. “Ozzy grasped that, but I cannot.”
“Fiddlesticks! Life is a serious—”
“If you please, madam!” said Flagg.
“If you please, ma’am,” echoed Doris, coming in, “Mrs. Lympne’s here to see you.”
“I think you’d better go and see the lady, Mrs. Osborne,” Alec advised, quite forcefully.
“Do!” burst from Flagg.
Mrs. Osborne scowled at them, but then, with a backward admonitory glare at her husband, she swept out. The inspector breathed a silent but visible sigh of relief.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Osborne asked humbly.
“Well, now, sir, from what we’ve heard so far, there’s not been any question of threats, let alone demanding money for your silence.”
“Good gracious, no! I had no thought of personal profit, and exposing people’s misdeeds could only hurt the innocent. That was not my purpose.”
“And you won’t go and do it again, will you, sir?”
“Need you ask? I’ll be leaving the village soon, anyway, leaving the ministry, leaving the Church. I can’t bear …”
“Yes, sir, that’s between you and your bishop and your lady wife. Now, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to cooperate with the police in finding the villain who killed your brother. I’ll ask you to give me a list of the people you wrote to.”
“If it will help.”
“And what you wrote about,” Flagg added.
At that, the vicar straightened. “I can’t do that, Inspector. As a clergyman, I hear—”
“But you won’t be a clergyman much longer, will you?” Flagg said with surprising gentleness. “And I suspect you heard most of this nasty stuff via gossip, not confessions.”
“A hint of the subject will serve,” said Alec. “No need to go into details.”
Osborne bowed his head but said stubbornly, “No, I can’t. I’ll give you their names, but nothing more.”
Daisy kept very still and quiet. If the vicar chose to confess in her presence, that was one thing. For her to stay and hear who had earned his condemnation was most improper. Fortunately both Alec and Flagg were intent upon Osborne.
“We know all about Dr. Padgett,” said the inspector, consulting his notebook, “and Lord John Frobisher, and Mrs. LeBeau. What about Brigadier Lomax, Mrs. Burden, Samuel Basin?”
“All three,” the vicar groaned, “and Mrs. Lomax, too. Lomax actually hit her! I could scarcely credit it, but the evidence … Then there’s the Willoughby-Joneses.”
He continued the list which included, along with several people Daisy did not know, Mr. Paramount (whose bitterness hurt Lady John as well as himself, he said), Mrs. Molesworth, Miss Hendricks, and Miss Prothero. As he named the last, indignation again overca
me his reticence.
Miss Prothero, it seemed, had a sister living in poverty whom she refused to help. Daisy could just imagine her confiding to Mrs. Osborne the transgressions which justified her harshness. Mrs. Osborne would have told her husband, feeling that as Mabel Prothero’s spiritual guide he ought to know.
“And then there’s Piers Catterick,” finished the vicar. “I dare say you are familiar with the reputation of his books. I need hardly say more.”
Flagg had obviously never heard of Catterick. Alec looked as if the name was vaguely familiar. They both glanced at Daisy, who nodded slightly. No need to ask the vicar to elaborate.
“That’s the lot?” asked Flagg.
“Yes, yes! I don’t know how I could have done such a thing. I was under a sort of horrible compulsion—inexplicable. Tell me, do you … do you think someone found out I wrote the letters and … killed Ozzy in mistake for me?”
“It’s a possibility we have to consider, sir,” Flagg said, at his most stolid. As Osborne closed his eyes and swallowed painfully, the inspector raised his eyebrows at Alec, who shook his head. “That will be all for now, sir, but we may well have more questions for you. I must warn you that if any further letters are sent, there will be official repercussions. Nor can I promise that word of your part in the affair will not get about as we interview these people. And it’s bound to come out if that particular theory of the professor’s death is correct.”
“I understand,” said Osborne hollowly. “I must write to the bishop.”
He turned to his desk, but Daisy, glancing back as she left the room, saw him staring blankly at the wall, making no move to start a letter.
Closing the study door behind him, Flagg said in a low voice, “Phew, there’s a turn-up for the books, if you like! An atheist clergyman writing Poison Pen letters! Yet I can’t but feel sorry for the poor chap. We’ll want to talk to his wife at some point, but if you agree, sir, I think we’ll start with the brigadier.”
Alec agreed. Of one mind—to evade Mrs. Osborne, whose voice floated from the drawing room along with the fragrance of coffee—they all crept quietly towards the front door. On the way, they passed the telephone nook and Daisy recalled the sheet of paper she had torn from the pad and put in her handbag.
Once they were safely out of the house, she was about to mention it when Alec said, “I should like to take a dekko at the scene of the crime, Flagg. You’ve found nothing helpful there, I take it?”
“No fag-ends, no dabs, no handy footprints,” said the inspector, leading the way down the path to the churchyard. “But we did get the angel set up on its perch again last evening, and gave it a shove between the shoulder-blades, and over it went, easy as pie, just like Miss Dalrymple suggested. Wouldn’t take a lot of strength, but no chance it fell off its own bat. You wouldn’t have to be that tall, either, to push it.”
“Your police surgeon agrees with Dr. Padgett’s evidence?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Soames hasn’t done the autopsy yet, but he reckons the professor died instantly of a broken neck, never mind the rest. Of course, arriving later, he can’t be as precise about the time of death, but we’ve Miss Dalrymple’s evidence for that.” Opening the gate, he stood aside to let the others pass. “You won’t want to come much farther, I expect, Miss Dalrymple,” he said kindly.
“Not all the way, but I’ll come as far as the church porch. I don’t imagine you’ve had a chance to follow up your other theories, Mr. Flagg?”
“Just what Constable Barton’s told me. Professor Osborne wasn’t involved with any local girl, and there’s been no unaccounted for strangers about. I cabled the Cambridge police, too, to find out if he’d got across anyone there, in the town or the university. They weren’t any too pleased at having to enquire at his college. I’m waiting for their answer.”
“Johnnie wondered if it could be a student who’d failed his exams, or a rival professor he had done down in some way.”
“Let’s hope not. I don’t want to have to run up there to tackle a bunch of highbrows. If it comes to that,” said the inspector with a sidelong look at Alec, “I’ll get my super to call in the Yard, officially.”
“Thanks for nothing! I’d rather tackle the House of Lords. All right, you wait here, Daisy. We shan’t be long.”
Daisy was glad of the shade in the porch, for the sun still shone brightly and the day was growing muggy. She was dying of hunger, the smell of Mrs. Osborne’s coffee having reanimated her appetite, forgotten in the shock of the vicar’s revelation. They might have been sharing that coffee—and perhaps a biscuit or two—had Flagg not decided to go to Brigadier Lomax next.
That message from the brigadier impressed on the Vicarage telephone pad, what had it said? Daisy had left her handbag up at Oakhurst along with her hat. She couldn’t remember Doris’s extraordinary spelling, but the gist was that Brigadier Lomax would return later.
She told the others about it as soon as they came back. “It must have been written that afternoon,” she said as they went through the lych-gate into the lane. “It was the most recent message, and the Vicarage must get quite a lot, don’t you think? Brigadier Lomax said he was out walking when they called him from the Vicarage about the professor. He’s a churchwarden,” she explained to Alec.
“And a right fuss he made about us experimenting with that angel,” grunted Flagg, and he bent to crank the car.
Daisy jumped in quick, before anyone could stop her. “Do you agree about the angel’s toppleability, darling?” she asked Alec.
“I take Flagg’s word for that. I wanted to see how likely it is that someone who knew the vicar pretty well could take his brother for him. After all, however alike, they weren’t identical twins, or someone would have mentioned it, and the professor was wearing his academic gown as well as the vicar’s hat.”
“And?” Daisy asked as the inspector climbed in.
“Just possible. Someone walking fast along the path would have caught glimpses, between those tall tombstones, of him standing there. Suppose he—for simplicity’s sake—was so angry with the vicar he deliberately averted his head so as not to have to speak to him, he might have noticed nothing but the hat and a general impression of black garb. And then, coming to the angel, a sudden impulse, a shove, and Bob’s your uncle.”
“The trouble is,” said Daisy …
“The trouble is,” said Flagg, “I don’t know where the Lomaxes live.”
“Somewhere down that way.” Daisy waved. “But I’m not sure.”
“We’ll have to stop off at Barton’s. Sorry, Miss Dalrymple, you were saying?”
“The professor was the one who was always contemplating that epitaph.”
“John Gay,” said Alec. “Early eighteenth century poet and playwright.” Flagg gave him a blank look, stopped the car, and left the motor running while he went into the village police house. “Sorry, love,” Alec went on, “I’d been trying to think who wrote the original. Incidentally, what does this chap Catterick write?”
Daisy knew her face was turning pink. “Steamy novels of rural passion, which just manage to skirt the Censor’s rules.”
“But that’s no secret,” Alec pointed out. “The question is, how many people would have been aware of the professor’s habit of brooding over that rhyme?”
“Probably not many,” Daisy said slowly. “I just happened to come across him. From the lane you wouldn’t see him unless you particularly looked, and then you wouldn’t see enough to identify him. And really, you’d expect to see the vicar meditating in a churchyard, wouldn’t you? Not a professor, even if you didn’t know he was an atheist. Alec, I’ve thought of something else, which could cut the number of suspects. Why would anyone not going to the Parish Hall take that path in the first place?”
“Good question!” Alec jumped out of the car and strode into the police house.
Left alone, Daisy was tempted to dash into the shop next door to buy something—anything!—edible. But she was not sure she want
ed to face Mrs. Burden, and the men came out before she had decided.
“No luck,” said Alec. “There’s a well-used footpath down the side of the hall which goes on through the wood behind.”
“Cambridge rang up,” said Flagg, setting off across the top of the green and down the lane beyond. “No luck there as yet. Tell us about the Lomaxes.”
Daisy described the brigadier and his mousy wife. “Feeble or not, Mrs. Lomax is one of the Vicarage tea-and-scandal set,” she said, “as ready as the rest to believe ill of anyone. She went to the Women’s Institute meeting, I’m sure. In fact, she’s chairman of the committee, though Mrs. Osborne flagrantly usurps her position.”
“Everyone’d notice if she wasn’t on time, then,” said Flagg. “She’s unlikely to be our murderer. All the same, I wonder if she has any secrets she’s desperate to hide, or if Mr. Osborne was just after her for gossiping. Ah, here we are.” He turned right between gateless brick gateposts. A sign read LOWER DENE HALL.
Beyond a narrow belt of woodland, they came to a halt before a pleasant manor house, considerably smaller than Oakhurst despite its grandiose name.
“Daisy,” Alec said cautiously, handing her out of the Ford, “how about you seeing if you can get anything useful from Mrs. Lomax, while we see the brigadier?”
She saw through his ploy at once: He didn’t want her sitting in on the interview with the brigadier. The wife was a diversionary tactic, a sop to Cerberus. However, at least he had not tried to give her orders. Besides, Daisy felt she might very well find out something useful from Mrs. Lomax, especially with neither her husband nor the detectives present to intimidate her.
Still more pressing was the likelihood of being offered coffee. It wasn’t too late for elevenses.
“What a good idea, darling,” she said. “She has one thing to hide, at least. She wouldn’t want people to know her husband mistreats her, and to keep that secret she might conceal other information.”
“Don’t try interrogating her, though,” Alec warned. “That’s a job for us.”
“Well, don’t you interrogate the brigadier in his gun-room!” Daisy retorted. “Do be careful, won’t you?”
